


The Usefulness of Skating

by TypingBosmer



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Crush, Christmas Fluff, F/F, First Kiss, Ice Skating, Winter Wonderland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27646534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TypingBosmer/pseuds/TypingBosmer
Summary: Inquisitor Cadash is a very pragmatic woman, who seldom does things unless they are guaranteed to be useful. She highly doubts there is going to be any use in going out on Skyhold's newly built skating rink and giving a few twirls... That is, until she catches Josephine watching her.
Relationships: Female Cadash/Josephine Montilyet, Female Inquisitor/Josephine Montilyet
Comments: 9
Kudos: 12
Collections: Holiday at the Retreat II: Electric Boogaloo





	The Usefulness of Skating

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitbug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitbug/gifts).



> Cadash here is no-one specific; I pretty much made up the character for the purposes of the story. I hope she has an engaging personality nonetheless!

One night, clouds roll over the mountains. Heavier, denser than usual. And the jagged, glittering white peaks awaken the next morning smothered in fuzzy gray, as if massive winter hats have slid over their eyes.

The clouds bring snow. Enough to reach past the topmost slopes, and into the valley where the Skyhold fortress sprawls, levels upon labyrinthine levels of ancient masonwork.

At first, there are just patches. Strips of white that snake along the edges of brown and fading green. Intricate lacework of silver that spreads over what used to be sloshing muddy carriage tracks near the drawbridge. Little swirls of sugary powder that melt before they settle on the tree branches and the windowsills.

And then, what seems like a blink later, there is so much more.

Hardly does Sera leap out into the courtyard, tongue extended further than should be naturally possible, and announce to the world in a muffled voice that she will 'Cath the firth thowflake'; hardly does Varric retreat further indoors, grumbling about bloody nature and its surprises; hardly does Dorian march in outrage over the crunching rime, to see a slackjawed, blinking Ser Morris and requisition a lifetime supply of scarves... When all of Skyhold, in a swift, soundless sweep, turns white.

The sharp outlines of every building, every turret, every tree — once green, and then red and gold — are rounded off by a huge brush, till nothing remains but thick, fluffy white cushions everywhere.

Those who have not hurried to hide away from the elements — amid books and blankets and steaming cups of tea or Bull's beloved and bizarre 'cocoa' drink — are greeting winter at the top of their lungs. With laughter and delighted screeches when a snowball comes whizzing through the air, knocking off (yet again) the head of an exceptionally ugly, contorted snowman that is meant to represent Corypheus.

In the lower courtyard, Blackwall is busily hammering together some sort of fence, enclosing a large patch of ice. Cadash has agreed to lend him her dwarven strength, even though she does not quite... get the purpose of this thing.

It doesn't look like a proper exercise ring: the recruits would slip. And there are benches around the ice too, for sitting down and doing...

'What?' she asks at last, as she pauses to wipe the sweat off her forehead.

All this busy work has made her feel warm despite the winter chill that has fallen over the courtyard like a heavy curtain. She has rolled up her sleeves, exposing her muscular forearms, peppered with dark hair and crisscrossed with gnarled pale scars and dark-red geometric tattoos to match the ones on her face.

This draws an awestruck gasp from the serving boys and girls that must have been running errands around the fortress, and have stopped to watch.

Quite a few cuties among them, too. If only her stupid, stupid self had not decided to swoon over one person — all refined and golden and perfect — that is definitely out of her league!

...Ahem. Huge sodding tangent here.

'What are we building here?'

Blackwall looks up at her with a look of such astonishment that you might think that his beard had jumped off his face onto hers, competing her 'curly undercut with sideburns' look.

'A skating rink. Surely you've heard of them. A place where people tie special blades to their boots and dance on the ice? For fun?'

Now it's Cadash's turn to gape. She did have to cross frozen streams when trying to shake off the guards and such. And she did sometimes do that on skating blades, for better speed and maneuvering.

She'd carry the loot off, with one hand behind her back, leaping over logs and boulders and cutting across sharp river bends — while the clanking armoured humans toppled into a squirming, outraged heap behind her. But she's never considered doing this for... fun?

She scoffs at the idea before she goes back to helping Blackwall. She's always prided herself on being pragmatic. Down to earth — if you can say that about a sky-touched dwarf.

That's what her life is all about.

Hammer together things that are broken — yes, apparently now that includes the literal Fade.

Procure things that are hard to find.

Punch bastards that make life hard for other people.

Pause for breath, grab a snack (wondering vaguely who dumped all these dainty little candies next to your plate), take a nap (also wondering who piled up all these dainty little pillows all over your bed).

Rinse and repeat the next day.

That's what she does. She makes herself useful — first to the Carta; and now to the Inquisition. And... And sometimes to the Ambassador specifically.

Though, of course, Cadash never lets her know that it was her.

Her who fixed the wobble in the Ambassador's armchair.

Her who shook down some dusters that owe her for some past... dealings, so they'd obtain the new, properly bound versions of some of the Ambassador's rare books before they entirely fell apart into paper dust.

Her who wrangled a furiously honking goose with her bare hands so that the Ambassador might have the best quills.

Well.

She scoffs.

But late at night, when Skyhold's snow cushions turn from glimmering white to deep, blueish slate, she sneaks back towards the finished skating rink. Just — just curious. About how you do such things... uselessly. For no other reason than fun.

By the scratches on the ice — overlaying loops and zigzags that look like a spider's web — it appears that some folks have already made good use of the rink during the day. One of them even left a pair of skates behind: just tossed them carelessly onto a bench.

Cadash pushes through the gate in the fence and lowers herself cautiously on that very bench, the skates a finger's length away from her.

Next, she casts a furtive glance back and forth, as if casing a house she plans to rob... And puts the sodding things on.

As she straightens up and rolls into the middle of the ice patch, her heart hammers a hasty, hot little melody against her ribs. The kind of melody that only plays within her when she is sneaking about with smuggled goods. Or closing a rift. Or noticing yet another little birthmark on the Ambassador's face.

Softly exhaling a puff of milky vapour, she makes a first, tentative twirl. Then another, more assured, more elaborate. Even if it serves no purpose — outside of... Fun.

Fun. She is having sodding fun! Dancing a dance of her very own. A twist, a kick, a jump. Her hardened, scar-slashed body feeling weightless as a feather; and every graceful landing gives her a rush of tingly breathlessness, awakening the heart's melody, again and again.

She grins to herself, planning a new pirouette... And then meets the gaze of a figure in a bell-shaped fur-padded coat and flat round hat with a fluffy pompom.

The figure hovers on the other side of the fence, standing on tiptoe and shifting its weight from one foot to the other, like a cat with something sticking to its paw pads. In one hand, freed from a large, silky fur muff, this unannounced spectator is holding up a lamp that casts patches of pale gold on a most astonished — and most gorgeous — face.

'Josie... Josiephinie... A-Ambassador!' Cadash blurts out, all finesse knocked out of her, and glides a little bit backwards on her skates waving awkwardly.

Thankfully, her back hits the fence on the opposite end of the rink before her legs give out entirely.

Which they shouldn't.

Sod it, she has never had any problem carrying the weight of full armour, and loot, and several weapons hidden in a variety of places! She has hoisted whole chunks of rock to seal off darkspawn tunnels (because doing it with planks alone was way too shoddy)!

And yet, somehow, it sure feels like her knees are failing her. When the only weight she has to bear is her knitted sweater... And the intensity of the Ambassador's gaze.

'I uh... Was just passing time... It's stupid, I know!'

'Oh, not at all!'

The muff comes plopping into the snow as the Ambassador makes an impassioned, flourishing gesture of protest with her other hand. And she does not even notice.

Entranced, ensnared by some weird sodding force she cannot describe with anything but vague 'umf' noises, Cadash kicks off and skates back to the Ambassador's corner of the fence. From a shorter distance, she can see how the lantern highlights the snowflakes around it, turning them into specks of glitter — and how even more of these specks dust the tips of the Ambassador's eyelashes, and caress her lips before they melt...

'It was most fascinating to watch, truly! It does not really snow in the winter in most regions of Antiva, or Orlais for that matter — so the very concept of this... ice dancing thrills me beyond measure! Especially when it is you — I mean... Not that I... You are a very skilled woman, Your Worship...'

'We could... dance together,' Cadash says, scarcely hearing her own voice. 

The full weight of what she just said knocks the wind out of her like a sledge hammer. That was way out of line, right? Way beyond all protocol! She should have just stuck with quietly making herself useful.

'That is most gracious, Your Worship!'

Visibly excited — unless Cadash is just seeing what she wants to see — the Ambassador enters the enclosure through the gate, sets her lantern down on a bench, and then...

Then, she is on the rink, skidding and scraping the ice with her embroidered boots.

Yeah. There are no more skates left for her. Should have thought of that instead of gawking at her eyelashes.

But there is no time to stand and huff and berate herself; Cadash has to catch the Ambassador before she falls.

In a whirlwind, accompanied by that triumphant drum beat in her chest, she wraps an arm around the Ambassador's waist and holds her firm and upright on the ice. The lantern, which they slide past, trying to find a footing, shines on Cadash now — and for some reason, the Ambassador gasps. Like those bystanders did today.

But... But she can't! Not her; not the most beautiful woman in Skyhold! Isn't she out of Cadash's league?

'Oh, pardon me, Your Worship...' she mutters, clearing her throat intensely and clearly struggling to keep up a businesslike tone. 'You have snow on your eyelashes. Which, uh, makes for a curious effect in... In this light'.

At last, despite all her effort, Cadash's knees buckle. And down the two of them come toppling — her hitting the rock-hard ice crust, and the Ambassador landing on top of her. She really does hope this breaks the fall.

In a dizzy golden flash, she suddenly recalls the firelit tavern — and Sera, sprawled with one leg on the table and the other on the floor, taking a huge swig of some dubious liquid, and announcing to the world,

'Shite, they all expect elves to be all hoity-toity and full of wisdom and piss like that... But you know what wisdom I got: World hard and cold, tiddy soft and warm. That's it. That's my message to the ages. Call Solas so he records it'.

...Is she, Cadash, soft and warm? She never particularly cared about that; that would not have been very useful when she had fights to win and demons to rip in two. But here, now, for the Ambassador... She'd like to be.

'Oh no. I am so sorry, Your Worship!'

The moments they spend like this, one resting on the other's chest (please let it be soft and warm!) trickle by, blissful and sweet and glowing like a spoonful of honey against the sun... But they do pass.

Josephine lifts herself up, as best she can, and tucks a stray black curl behind her ear.

'I should never have interrupted your ice dance — which... which you performed quite beautifully, I must say! Are you badly hurt? Oh, I wish I had some of those cushions at hand, like the ones I placed in your quar...'

She freezes, leaning over Cadash, who has made no effort to get up yet. The curl slips free again, soft and playful. The drums in Cadash's chest roar like a bronto stampede now.

Watching her own hand in numb amazement, as if it were entirely alien to her own body, she is the one to tuck the Ambassador's hair back now. When that is done, her hand lingers, cupping the Ambassador's cheek.

Her fingers, broad and callused and with short nails painted dark-red — like her tattoos and the occasional smidge of warpaint around her eyes — peek just enough out of her mitten... Just enough to feel the tender fuzz at the Ambassador's temple. To tingle with heat when blood rushes to the Ambassador's face.

'You did this!' she mouths. 'You... All those helpful little things... Like I... I...'

A spark ignites in the Ambassador's eyes, bright and keen. She moves back to where she rested when they had just fallen. So close. With perfume escaping from under the collar of her coat, enveloping Cadash till her head swims and her throat goes dry.

'Like you did with my chair and my books and writing supplies! Oh, Your Worship, you are too kind!'

'You are kinder,' Cadash protests hoarsely, the thick sweetness of the perfume now pooling in her throat and stomach.

'Am I now?'

The Ambassador's lips glide up in a wicked little smirk — a token of the time she spent at court, weaving the delicate threads of intrigue and flirtation. In a league so above Cadash's. Or... Or not?

Before the Ambassador finally scrambles to her feet and reaches for her lantern... That smirk turns into a kiss. A swift touch against Cadash's own lips — and then, something longer, deeper, elaborate as her dance on the ice and leaving her just as weightless.

'It's a good thing that I decided to distract myself from my work with an evening stroll,' Josephine says when she pulls a petrified, blank-faced Cadash to her feet and steps back through the gate.

'Very useful'.

Before the night swallows her, Cadash catches one last glimpse of her face, bathed in golden light.

'I look forward to working with you tomorrow, Your Worship. How many more useful things we might accomplish'.

The smirk returns again, holding the memory of the kiss like a well-kept secret.

A raven — one of the Spymaster's faithful pets — lands on the fence, like a blot of inky black that has separated itself from the rest of the surrounding darkness. It caws questioningly, head cocked to one side, but the only response it receives from Cadash is a weak hand wave, in an attempt to shoo it off.

She has the favour of the most beautiful woman in Skyhold. Whatever that glorified chicken has to say can wait, she decides, feeling very soft and warm indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Josephine is rather more forward with flirting in this fic than she is in-game — but maybe she begins chiding herself for her own 'inappropriate' boldness the instance she is out of sight. And yes, the raven is about to report what it's seen to Leliana, triggering the protective cutscene that ultimately enables Josephine's romance.


End file.
